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Category Archives: Food and Candy (Because Candy IS food)

Aside
You want fries with that?

Kids today have it made.  Some of you probably think I’m talking about how no kid is ever considered a loser anymore.  Everyone gets a ribbon!  You didn’t place at all in the science fair with your “Which candy causes ants to swarm the most?”  That’s ok! You can tie your shoes!   You’re in high school and you can’t spell the word “ridiculous”?  (which you, still as a forty year old man spell “rediculous”  And you have the nerve to call me stupid? Really?)  That’s ok! You went number two all by yourself! (I cannot confirm nor deny whether or not the forty year old man accomplished this feat)  Not once did you hit the ball off of the tee?  That’s ok!  There’s no “I” in team!  (unless again, you’re that forty year old man that can’t spell then you may put an “I” in there: TeaIm?)

All of those things aside, I’m talking about the quality of today’s Happy Meal.  Please note that I use the term “quality” very loosely, as I’m sure that if we actually did science experiments on the chemically produced foods that make up a Happy Meal, we would find that there’s no quality there at all. On the plus side, you would probably get a blue ribbon at the fair, or at least an “I can clog my arteries!” ribbon.

When I was but a young girl, you had two choices for a Happy Meal:  hamburger or cheeseburger. It was only in my early teen years that the McNugget was introduced.  I fell in love with the McNugget.  If you have a McNugget addiction that you just can’t kick, read up on how and what they make the McNuggets out of and you may be able to quit cold turkey, which incidentally might be an ingredient in the CHICKEN McNuggets.  Also, I am seeing how many times I can write the word McNugget in one paragraph. It’s one of those words that looks all weird if you look at it long enough.

Along with my cheeseburger or hamburger, I could get a small portion of fries and either a small soda or a small orange drink.  Those were my options.

Seem like I’m forgetting the best part of the Happy Meal?  Because I’m not.  The real reason that kids always get Happy Meals is not for the food. It’s for the toy.  When I was a kid, these are the toys I remember getting:

A yellow dinosaur eraser, a green dinosaur eraser, a blue rhinoceros eraser.

Do you see a pattern here? Apparently kids from my generation made a lot of mistakes…in pencil.

This brings me to today’s Happy Meal and the spoiled kids who get them, probably as a treat for, not winning their pee wee soccer game, but for not having their finger shoved up their nose when the soccer ball hit them square in the face while they were mining their nostrils.  Today’s Happy Meals, first of all, are ginormous compared to what we got.  Today’s kids are feasting on what, in the early 1980’s would be considered an adult value meal.  And they have options!  They can get a hamburger, cheeseburger or chicken nuggets.

“But Jenn,” you say, ready to prematurely correct me, “those are the same options YOU had!”

To which I would say to you, “Pipe down and let me finish! Who’s writing this blog? Me or you?” And then I would return to my story, much as I am about to do.

Today’s kids have the same options we have PLUS they now get their sandwich or nuggets, fries, a drink (which now also includes the choice of a shot of regular or chocolate milk) AND apples.  Not apple dippers, mind you, which consisted of slices of apple and a container of dippable caramel but just apples.  A lot of people don’t know this but if you ask, they will give you some caramel.  This was the McDonald’s way of making their kids’ meals healthier.  And to counteract the health initiative they now offer kids the choice to “upsize” their meals, calling them “Mighty Meals.”  A good name for them, if by mighty you mean “The Obese Maker” meal….or the “Mighty good start on the path to Obesity” Meal.

And the toys they get now are no longer dinosaur erasers.  No, that’s not entertaining enough for today’s kids.  Today’s kids get toys that light up or make sounds or move or do their science projects for them so that they don’t end up getting the “I didn’t touch my junk in public” award.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining about Happy Meals. I’m actually quite thrilled because I can get a full size meal for under four bucks plus a toy that I will be amused with for about ten seconds.  So yes, I am in my mid-thirties and I get Happy Meals. Not for the toy but because it’s like Goldilock’s chair, it’s just the right size.  I’m just saying that I don’t think today’s kids realize how good they have it. They get large portions of deep fried fat and sugar PLUS a pretty cool toy. No erasers to be found these days. The toys keep getting better and better.

And when McDonald’s teams up with Apple in some way and starts giving out McIPads, I will be the first in line.

You want fries with that?

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Figgy Pudding Threats

Figgy Pudding Threats

Music is a powerful entity, a force to be reckoned with, a vehicle for my mind to wander off unsupervised like a three-year old in a grocery store wildly swinging a wiffle ball bat.  It just so happens that music inspires me in a way that nothing else does.  I love lyrics.  And when I’m driving in my car with the radio on, I tend to come upon some that unleash the three-year old.

Today It was “We Wish You A Merry Christmas.”  This song has always sent me off on a mind-wandering journey because I simply cannot fathom the passive-aggressive message it sends.  Let’s take a look-see, shall we?

First of all, I have heard the song start out two ways:  One, with “I wish you a Merry Christmas,” and the other with “WE wish you a Merry Christmas.”  The weird part is both versions end up going into the plural form.  So what I can deduce from that is that whoever was caroling this song, started out as a soloist and somewhere down the line ended up recruiting more members for his choir.  Why would that be necessary?

Stay with me. I have a theory….

The next part is the part about bringing “good tidings we bring to you and your kin.”  So now at this point we definitely have a group wishing us and our dysfunctional families good things.  They are sending out their best wishes to us and relatives.  How sweet.

Or is it?

“Oh bring us some figgy pudding.”  I have always giggled when I hear this part because the first time I heard this line, I DID NOT hear “figgy.”  I heard a cuss word.  Of course, instantly I realized that I heard it wrong but it still makes me chuckle a bit. And the more important question, what the heck is figgy pudding?  I’ve never gone to a party, pointed at something and said, “What is that?” and had the answer come back, “Oh, that Miss Marge’s Famous Figgy Pudding!”  In fact, I’ve never been anywhere that figgy pudding was served.

As disgusting as it sounds to me, figgy pudding DOES exist. It is apparently a white Christmas pudding that has figs in it. Ew.  Why is this choir asking for figgy pudding?  What is so special about figgy pudding that it is the one item they request? And as we will learn in the next verse, that they request in a demanding way.

“We won’t go until we get some.”  Excuse me?  First of all, a soloist shows up at my front door and starts singing, which then somehow signals all of the other figgy pudding fiends in the neighborhood to join in (I see now, why he has employed his friends in this shenanigan: strength in numbers.) and they start off wishing me good things and then basically tell me that they are not leaving until they get what they want?

What we have here is a classic ransom situation.  The figgy pudding fiends are threatening, in a passive aggressive song-singing way, that until I give them their drug of choice, they are going to stand in my yard and continue to serenade me.  The weird part is that they are so jolly as they threaten to stay forever.  They stand there smiling and singing, bobbing their heads this way and that, all the while demanding food that I have never, and will never have in my possession.

WE WON’T GO UNTIL WE GET SOME! WE WON’T GO UNTIL WE GET SOME! WE WON’T GO UNTIL WE GET SOME! SO BRING SOME OUT HERE!

That does it.  I’m calling the cops.  No one threatens me over figgy pudding.

Apparently the cops cannot really do anything about this until actual harm has been done. It’s time to take justice into my own hands.

So I’m ready this year.  I have prepared my own lines to sing back at them when they come figgy pudding hunting.

I want you to leave my yard

I want you to leave my yard

I want you to leave my yard

So go away right now.

I don’t have any figgy pudding.

I don’t have any figgy pudding.

I don’t have the stupid pudding,

So off! Shoo, you go!

I’m giving you twenty seconds,

I’m giving you twenty seconds,

I’m giving you twenty seconds,

Before I punch you.

You can’t say I didn’t warn you,

You can’t say i didn’t warn you,

You can’t say I didn’t warn you

So now it’s too late.

I’m gonna show up at your house,

I’m gonna show up at your house,

I’m gonna show up at your house,

And this is what I’ll sing:

WE wish you a Merry Christmas

WE wish you a Merry Christmas

WE wish you a Merry Christmas

(Just one more verse left.)

You threatened me for figgy pudding,

You threatened me for figgy pudding,

You threatened me for figgy pudding,

I brought some today.

Now shove it in your figgy pudding hole

Now shove it in your figgy pudding hole

Now shove it in your figgy pudding hole

Stay away from me next year.

And with that I will throw steaming figgy pudding at their house and saunter off, knowing that they will not be begging for figgy pudding at my house next year.  As my gift to you, I am allowing you to sing these verses back at your carolers.

For stronger effect, please feel free to substitute “figgy” with something else…I’ve already given you an option.

 

 

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Trick or Treat-The Other Side

Trick or Treat-The Other Side

Halloween 2011.. BEST. HALLOWEEN. EVER. Now, with your permission, or without it, I’d like to sit back, kick off my sock monkey slippers and tell you of my evening.

I began preparations earlier in the day, mixing up all the bags of candy that I had purchased just for this occasion into one big orange plastic bowl that came full of mini Snickers (which I devoured earlier in the day.) A beautiful assortment. I put the bowl on the table beside the door and put “Werewolves of London” on repeat on my stereo system which I had earlier positioned in the windows so as to drench the entire neighborhood in the sounds of Halloween. After 28 minutes of non-stop “Ahhhhhhh Ooooooooh Werewolves of London…Ahhhhhhh Oooooooh Werewolves of London” my neighbors put an end to that. Who knew nuns didn’t like Warren Zevon?

Then the trick-or-treaters began to trickle in. Trick-or- treat starts at six PM sharp, not a minute before in this house. I’m sorry to those little rugrats that showed up at five fifty-five. We have rules for a reason. I’m also sorry that they came back later and all I had left was a Ziploc bag full of crushed candy canes from four Christmas’ ago but that’s what happens when you don’t follow the rules.

At six, I opened the door and waited.

Ding dong.

Excitement like new love filled my stomach. I hurried to the door and peered out and saw a hippie, a hobo and an M&M. I reached into the bowl and took out a big handful and aimed carefully and WHACK! hit the hobo in the left eye. I felt a little bad at first but then I thought, “hey, you’re the one who chose to be a hobo, you might as well get the whole experience. You should just be glad I didn’t have a beer can.” While the hobo was crying into the folds of his mother’s skirt, I threw several pieces of chocolate at the M&M. He opened his bag and almost all of the pieces made it. He became very focused with the content of his bag as I threw the final bunch of candy to the little hippie. She had one of those orange plastic pumpkins and she caught all of it. Then she looked up at me and with a twinkle in her eye and said,

“Why don’t you hand out candy at the door like a normal person, you weirdo!” (I was up on my balcony tossing the candy off into the night air.)

“Yeah, and why are you passing out Easter candy? That was like 6 months ago. Gross” (There was a sale after Easter, ninety percent off. Who can pass that up?)

“Just for that you’re not getting the motherload: this entire package of Peeps,” I retorted as I flung another chocolate bunny for good measure.

Off they trotted, mumbling amongst themselves and to the mother who brought them. I’m pretty sure she was teaching them some new words.

A few minutes later, after I’d just settled in for another mini Snickers, another gaggle of girls rang the bell. Taking to heart what the hippie had said I decided to do the right thing and take the candy downstairs to the door.

I opened it and staring up at me was the cutest little pair of twin girls, probably around the age of 2 or 14, (it’s hard to tell when they’re at that age) each dressed up like a different Disney princess.

“Here ya go, Ariel,” I said as I put a few crispy rice chocolate eggs in her little canvas “Please don’t feed me razorblades” tote. She said thank you sweetly.

“And some for you Princess Jasmine,” I crooned, dropping a few chocolate bunnies in Jasmine’s “I’m allergic to peanuts” bag. She too, smiled up at me until she saw what had been dropped in the bag.

“What the? What is this junk? Are you seriously that cheap that you can’t even buy Halloween candy?”

Then Ariel piped up, “yeah, and why is it frozen? How long have you had this crap? Mom, can you believe this? I’m not eating this.”

But mom had already started to usher the girls away with her own look of disgust, making a mental (but audible) note to not come to this house again.

The evening parade of Spidermen, witches and Lindsay Lohans’ continued sporadically until about seven thirty, a half hour short of quitting time.

Each group of youngsters brought similar responses:

“What is this?”

“Didn’t you give out Christmas candy last year?”

“Popcorn balls? These aren’t even in sealed packages. Did you make these?”

“What am I going to do with this doily?”

“A toothpick? A TOOTHPICK? You can’t even give out a toothBRUSH?”

At seven fifty-five, a carload of trick-or-treaters showed up and rang the bell. Exhausted as I was from climbing up and down the stairs–only to be mocked and jeered might I add–I opened the door to find five very tall trick-or-treaters. One was in a sheet with two holes cut out, one had a plastic Homer Simpson mask on with a black trench coat, another had fake blood coming out of his nose or had a really bad coke habit (jury is still out on that one but you never like to jump to conclusions) and still another had a Freddie knife/glove on his hand and was wearing a Dave Matthews concert t-shirt and the last one, the driver, just had a pillowcase held out in front of my face. In fact none of them really had Halloween bags. All of them carried pillowcases except for one who carried a scrunched up black plastic garbage bag.

“What have we here?” I said, inspecting the group.

“Look just give us the candy,” sneered Dave Matthews.

“Well just hold on there little guy, I wanna see who I’m dealing with here.”

I tried to squat to his level when I said “little guy” but I realized that without even squatting he was still taller than I was.

“Look lady, we’re not playing the game. We just want candy.”

“Ok, well, I’m the one with the candy so I think I’ll be deciding the game we play, right gang?”

This was my first major mistake of the night. How was I to know that this was, indeed, the neighborhood gang? They got a little up in arms at my blatant calling out of their gang and one of them started to go for a switchblade. Then just as he came at me with the switchblade. I heard a loud thud as something smacked him in the back of his oversized head. I watched his eyes roll back as he crumpled to the ground in a teenage heap. When the others in the gang saw what had happened they all turned around to see who had taken down their leader. With looks of terror on their faces they scooped up their fallen comrade, who had now begun to cry and headed off to their car.

As I looked down at the ground in front of me I saw the weapon: a chocolate bunny. I looked in the direction that it had come from and couldn’t believe my eyes. Standing not eight and three quarters feet away from me was my rescuer: the hippie. She smiled at me and I smiled back at her and I knew then what I had to do.

Reaching back to the table by my front door, I picked up the last package I had left and as she held out her little orange plastic pumpkin, which by now was almost full, I put in the last package of yellow Peeps I had kept in my freezer since Easter….not this Easter but two Easters before.

As she looked up with her little angelic hippie-looking face, I said what we were both thinking,

“Let these thaw a little before you eat them or you’ll break off a tooth.”

 

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Trick or Treat

Trick or Treat

I loved trick-or-treating. I loved putting on my little vinyl one piece Wonder Woman outfit and donning that plastic mask that was held on by rubber bands and staples. I could never get my nose holes to go anywhere near my nostrils so by the end of the night the inside of my mask was covered in exhale condensation. I loved the few minutes before it was “OFFICIALLY” trick-or-treat, the anticipation of knowing that in an hour or two I would have enough candy to last me for quite a while. I loved the smell of burning leaves as I started off in search of my loot.

Here’s what I didn’t love so much: I didn’t love that we were only allowed to trick-or-treat at the houses of people we knew because we didn’t know very many people in the neighborhood ( sing along, you know you want to: in the neighborhood, in the NEIGHborhood) so our stash would be low considered to the kids who were allowed to run around all willy nilly through several neighborhoods where they knew no one and had better chances of eating a razorblade. I didn’t love that the only neighbors we did know were elderly. Not that I don’t respect my elders or that I have a problem with senior citizens. But by the end of my night my orange pumpkin was not full of fun size Snickers, Butterfingers or Milky Way bars.  No. By the time our allotted two hour of candy begging was over, my bucket was always full of root beer barrels, butterscotch disks, chick-a-sticks, pre-packaged popcorn balls, handfuls of pennies for Unicef and the most hated orange and black wrapped pieces of peanut butter “kisses.” This is quite possibly the Ishtar of all candies.

The best part of trick-or-treating was coming home and dumping the loot all over the floor to sort it out and get ready for trade. This, of course, came after the parental inspection for any suspicious looking treats: slightly opened toffee rolls, busted Pixie Stix, unpackaged candy of any kind and the ever-urban-mythed: razorblades in apples (in all my years of begging for candy I have never been given an apple. Not once. And if I had been given an apple it would have been fastballed back at their door after they closed it.)  Trick or Treat. Not Trick or Give-Me-Something-That-Will-Help-Me-Poop. 

Upon peeling off the thin vinyl one piece costume and tearing off the now, quite moist plastic mask, the pumpkin is unceremoniously dumped on the living room floor.  The real work now begins.  The first task is to take the unwanteds (see above, also known as elderly candies) and set them aside.  Then you must organize and inventory the remaining candy.  Chocolate goes in one corner, mini packets in another and the cheap hard candy assortment off to one side.  The trading begins.  If all is in perfect harmony in the family, this will be an enjoyable task.  For instance, if your brother likes orange candy and you do not and you like mint chocolate and he does not, smooth sailing.  If this is not the case, things can get tricky. Strategies must be employed to gain the best harvest.  Negotiations can get tense.  The talks can take up to fifteen minutes but hopefully in the end, everyone gets what they want and no punches were thrown. 

Now the eating begins. If it were up to me, I would devour the entire contents in one sitting, run around the room on a sugar high and then crash with a severe case of the shakes, only to repeat the process ten minutes later. 

But it was never up to me.  After the anticipation, the hard task of working up the nerve to knock on doors and beg for candy, the anxiety of wondering how much candy will pass inspection and the tension of the trade talks, the evening ends with me sitting on the floor with half a chewed tootsie roll in my mouth as the candy is whisked away and rationed out over the next several weeks.

They say that often people who were deprived of food hoard it later on in life when they have freedom and choice. 

Halloween may be the reason why I ate my weight in sour gummy worms last night.

 

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Clean That Up!

Clean That Up!

I can’t complain about any of the places I’ve worked over the years. Except for a few jobs that I resigned from (Read: Went to work for three days and on the fourth sat in my car in a remote parking lot and bawled my eyes out, sobbing on the phone to my best friend that “I can’t do this!” while inhaling white chocolate macadamia nut cookies) I have been blessed enough to have commendable employers, adequate paychecks and when applicable, KILLER commissions (although it was not coincidental that I rocked my quotas every month so I earned every cent.) If I had to lodge a complaint about any (or all) of my former places of employment, my grievance would always remain the same, the break room microwave.

No matter where I’ve worked or who I’ve worked for, the break room microwave has been the most foul aspect of every workplace.

If you’re reading this at work, please take a second to look around you. These seemingly normal, seemingly CLEAN people who you work with, joke with and maybe even socialize with ARE SLOBS.  Yes, lurking among your co-workers is a slovenly pig.  And by the probable look of the microwave, you are among a whole herd.

I am the leftover queen.  And on days when I don’t have leftovers, you can bet your sweet bippy that I have surreptitiously hidden my Banquet chicken pot pie behind that grouping of frost-laden Hot Pockets that have been in the freezer for six months.  No one knows who the Hot Pockets belong to so they never get thrown out when someone finally has the gumption to clean the refrigerator.

Every day, at every job I have ever had, after exactly four hours of work (because I am nothing if not a by-the-book kind of gal. I take my breaks at the appointed time.) I clock out for my lunch hour, which is actually just thirty minutes long. And thank God for that, because after forty minutes of watching daytime tv, I want to take my plastic spork and poke myself in the eye. But with my luck one of the tines would break off and I’d have to be taken to the emergency room, thereby making my day even longer.

After four hours of usually mindless albeit time-sucking work, I am famished.  I go to the communal fridge and pull out my Wal-Mart bag of goodies. While the entrée varies, the extras never change: A soda and a Little Debbie snack cake. (Never mind that in a one year time frame I gained thirty-seven pounds by devouring two to three giant Little Debbie treats a day.)  Today’s entrée: leftover home-made spaghetti laced with tons of garlic.  As I uncover the condensation covered Tupperware, the smell engulfs the room.  One can never be too generous with the garlic.  My mouth starts to water as I imagine the party my taste buds will attend in one and a half minutes, knowing that the garlic has had time to marinate the whole batch and saturate each and every slippery noodle.

But first: Re-heat.

I carry my beloved spaghetti (home-made sauce, by the way) to the microwave and pop open the door.

And I recoil in disgust.

The inner box of the microwave, the one that will soon nurture my spaghetti back to its former piping hot glory, is covered in everyone else’s culinary spatterings. First I lay eyes upon Joe’s leftover crusty white sauce from last week.  Next my eyes dance over to the butter stains from the popcorn that Sonja popped three months ago.  The glass turntable is completely covered in a multi-colored greasy film of brown gravy, white gravy, red sauce, white sauce, one fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish sauce.

Every color of the rainbow as well as every food group is well-represented in the cookspace of the break room microwave that I apparently share with a group of people who, while appearing amazingly functional at their jobs, are apparently living in wretched squalor based on the condition of this oven. And the stains and smutch are not just from today.   Some of this gunk has been there for weeks, if not months.

So why, you ask, is this the first time that I’ve noticed the condition of the microwave?  It’s not.  But today is the first time that the problem has gone 3D on me.  Roosting in the middle of the circular glass plate that gives me assurance that I will not have ice-cold noodles beneath tongue-scorching, day-ruining sauce because it will cook everything evenly, is a new sight. A nasty sight.

There, in the middle of the plate is a white-ish, still liquid enough that I can tell what it is but old enough that it has congealed a bit, splash of New England Clam Chowder.  The piece de resistance of this gathering of abandoned food?  One perfectly square potato cube sitting beside a lone commercially fished, miniscule rubbery clam floating atop a thick white broth.

I can’t win.  Normally I overlook the collection of crusty and clumpy food bits.  I turn a blind eye to the microwave ceiling splatterings of Chef Boyardee.  But today I cannot ignore it because the mess has taken up residence in the middle of the rotating glass.  Smack dab in the middle of where I would normally put my loaded-with-goodies Tupperware, there sits a mushy cube of potato accompanied with a sad-looking unhappy clam.  Unavoidable.

A sudden rush of anger wells up from deep within my hungry soul.  I work with pigs.  That guy I share my Pixie Stix with every day?  Is that his mozzarella dangling from the front door?  That girl who always talks to me about the latest episode of the Office?  Yeah, that’s her crusted ramen pelted all over every wall of the cooking space.

I dwell in my anger just long enough to blame everyone who has ever worked here for the mess that is lingering in the oven.  My thoughts are suddenly peppered with horrible, horrible ways to retaliate.  I come to my senses, remembering that I only have thirty minutes and just spent the last four minutes steeping myself in angry juice.  I must take action.

I grab the nearest roll of paper towels, wet them in the sink and start scrubbing, pieces of cold clam chowder sloshing around everywhere  as I scour every inch of the cook box. I even wipe down the ceiling because I know that when heated, whatever food particles that are desperately clinging to it will become pliable and fall into my bowl. And I am not about to eat someone else’s exploded Beefaroni that plummets the short distance and mixes with my sustenance.

I would like to tell you that I totally spring-cleaned the oven but I would be lying.  I would also love to tell you that it was due to a time constraint that I didn’t clean it well but again, I would be lying.  I didn’t clean it well as an act of pure defiance.

I get the microwave just clean enough to make sure I don’t get some kind of gut-wrenching food poisoning. I punch one minute and thirty on the keypad and wait while my goodies turns a slow circle inside the oven.  I can hear the sauce begin to pop and sizzle.  I can trace the faint, but-ever-strengthening smell of garlic overload seeping out.  Finally it beeps and I open the door to see that my spaghetti has exploded all over the inside of the microwave, leaving me with a few dry, crusty, sauce-covered noodles to sustain me for the rest of the afternoon.

I would love to tell you that I cleaned up my own mess…..

 

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Hoity Toity

Hoity Toity

When my family comes over to visit, we go out to eat. I can cook. I will cook. But it’s one of those things I have to be in the mood for and most of the time,  I’m not.  Being the highfalutin’ family that we are, we dine at the local Taco Bell. I love Taco Bell (and don’t call it Taco Hell, that’s so nineteen ninety-five, and even then it wasn’t funny.) Taco Bell is the only fast-food restaurant that will actually admit to using Grade F meat,  the lowest quality allowed for human consumption. Taco Bell meat is Alpo dog food with a different label, but I love me some Grade F torn-into-bitty-pieces protein.

The last time we went, we were waiting behind a woman who looked so out-of-place. She seemed confused and overwhelmed and maybe even a little fearful of the world into which she had just descended. From the tip of her salon-frosted tips to the petals of her delicately painted rose toenail art, this woman was tan. But not “I visit a tanning bed once a week” tan. She was more of a “I have my own tanning bed and I use it every day all year-long” tan. Throw some flour on her, fry her up in a pan and she could pass for the Colonel’s crispy chicken.  To show off her un-natural tan, she was dressed in all white with bright pink fingernails (To coordinate with her toenail rose art) and was covered in diamond everything: rings, earrings, necklace, nose ring…maybe not a nose ring. That would have been beneath her. But this Hoity Toity was dripping money all over the sticky Taco Bell cracked tile floor.

Hoity Toity had this little list in her diamond-encrusted hand, so she was buying for more than herself. She wasn’t dressed to work in an office so I have no idea who she was feeding but I’m fairly certain she wasn’t going to partake of this slop. She started to order and the first thing she said with very little confidence was:

“Do you have something called a “chicken quesadilla?”

Wait…WHAT?

How does someone NOT know what kind of food Taco Bell offers?  There are commercials everywhere, for the love of Peter, Paul and  Mary. She plodded through the rest of her list the same way, unsure of what she was ordering, how to pronounce the items (Burreedo? Is that right? No? It’s burrito? I need to roll my “r”s? I’ll buy a speech coach.) and sometimes even looking around to make sure that she wasn’t going to be mugged by one of us mutants waiting in line to order.

She finished her food order and began to place her drink requests.

“It’s Mountain Roo? Did I say that right?”

OK, I made that last one up, but I think the only reason she got the soft drinks right was because of the logos on the different fountains.

Then the kicker: everyone knows how the receipt with number order system works. Correction, ALMOST everyone. Hoity Toity wasn’t familiar with the process of getting her receipt and responding when her number was called, which could only mean that not only was she not familiar with Taco Bell, but it would appear that she had never stepped foot in any fast-food restaurant. She was baffled when they called a number and no one spoke up. She went forward and said,

“I don’t know if this is mine. I don’t know where to look for the number,” as she gave the ticket to the employee.

This was obviously a fish-out-of-water cry for help. The Taco Bell Chef looked at her for a second with disbelief and then patiently he explained the process to her, sometimes glancing at other customers to see if Hoity was for real or if someone had a hidden camera trained on his face ready to let the joke surface. Hoity looked around too, but probably just to make sure no one was going to cut her while she waited.

I didn’t know whether to laugh at the situation or not because if the tables been turned and had I somehow ended up in one of the fancy restaurants that Hoity Toity probably frequents, I wouldn’t have known how to act either.

Lucky for me, with my income, this will never be an issue I will have to face.

 

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The Fridge

The Fridge

Cleaning out the refrigerator for me is worse than cleaning a bathroom.  I would rather go to the zoo and have a monkey pleasure himself while singling me out in a crowd than to clean out my own refrigerator. And the monkey thing is not all that much fun so you can imagine how much I hate to clean out the fridge.

After taking a giant swig of spoiled chocolate milk (which was dated 8-20-11, so it was stamped WRONG to begin with, Stupid Dairy Liars.) the other night during another sleep eating incident, (don’t want to talk about it)  I realized it was time to tackle this much loathed task.

I hit the freezer first, which contained two very old pie crusts, a bag of stir fry that was only recognizable by it’s label (I would have thought it was a pretty-color-speckled iceberg) a Ziploc bag of broccoli, Bomb Pops from two summers ago and 25 frozen ice pops from last summer.

Here is what is left in my freezer: A half empty five-pound bag of Hershey Kisses and a near full five-pound bag of Jolly Ranchers.  Stop judging me.

Then came the worst part of cleaning the fridge, the main compartment. At least when you throw away the Bomb Pops from two summers ago, they don’t splash unidentifiable contents onto your body. This cannot be said of the items in the fridge.

I threw away enough mini-condiment packages from fast food restaurants to supply Busch Stadium for a three-day home stand. I have no idea why I keep these because even if you tell them you don’t need ketchup at the drive-thru they throw it in the bag with your burger anyway. How much duck sauce does one need? I don’t even use duck sauce.

I tossed three very soft onions, a bag of soggy potatoes that were emitting a foul odor and growing roots, the rest of the chocaroni and cheese(what was I thinking when I made this? I definitely wasn’t thinking that the Dairy Liars had been up to mischief) a bowl of white gravy that had turned brown and had little fuzzy green splotches all over it, about six bottles of family size juice products (it’s cheaper when you buy in bulk…especially when you throw over half a bottle away because it has turned into undrinkable Blueberry-Pomegranate Wine), Chef Boyardee Beefaroni that I don’t remember ever eating, about four teaspoons of sugar left in an otherwise empty bag, a dozen (from two different cartons) eggs from April and May and a gallon of milk circa February. This is not the oldest container of milk that my refrigerator has housed. I’ve had some for as much as eight months. Did I mention I hate cleaning out the fridge? Because I do.

I had to make three trips to the dumpster to get rid of all of the food. On my third sweaty roundtrip, as I was dumping the trash, some of the sugar flew up into the air and came to settle all over my legs and fell into my Crocs. I don’t know if you know what happens to sugar in the heat but I walked back into the house with sugar paste oozing around between my toes. On a positive note, my toes are now ex-foliated rather nicely.

All that I have left now is one IKEA chocolate bar from my last trip up north, two half empty bottles of Gatorade, a two liter of Coke, seven string cheese links, five pudding cups and 51 cans of Slim Fast.

Tonight I am having Lowfat Cheesy Double Choco-Cola Soup for dinner.

 

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